Call The Wattmeister ‘old school’ if you will, but he always makes a point of polishing his overshoes before turning in for the night. This practice dates back to the eve of his first professional victory in the 1978 Tour of the Hollow Ponds, Leytonstone, Essex (no postcode).
Dreadlock Holiday by 10cc was top of the UK charts, a pint of beer cost 40p and The Cannibal was about to be replaced by The Badger. Only gentlemen and rock stars doped in those halcyon days.
Sir John Betjeman, the poet laureate in 1978, penned a beautiful poem, Myfanwy (very careful how I typed that), in which the narrator wishes to exchange places with a bicycle in order to be close to the heroine.
In the same vein, The Wattmeister’s bikes are the object of some envy on behalf of the Wattmeisterin.
…Maraud down Friern Barnet Lane on your carbon steed,
Compression socks hidden under stretched lycra,
Star of the peloton home and abroad,
Balanced on a bicycle bred for speed.
Let me follow thy hallowed wheel,
Past the fairways and Friary Park,
Over the crossing and up the hill,
Unleashing the sprint like a great white shark.
With sincere apologies to Sir John Betjeman.